


Witching Hour

by DracoMaleficium



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Arkham Asylum, Batman Endgame, Dark Magic, Death of the Family (DCU), Drabble Collection, Freeform, Gotham is a Character, Horror, Joker is a Witch, M/M, New 52, Witchcraft, sentient gotham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 13:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7760164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoMaleficium/pseuds/DracoMaleficium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the Nu52 "Death of the Family," "Endgame" and "Batman" #47/48 arc. The Joker has more tricks up his sleeve than he's willing to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rules

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mitzvahmelting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Mitzvah! Hope you have a great one and once again I'm very sorry that this is pretty far removed from your wish list. I hope you like this weird little thing anyway <3
> 
> This was inspired by a conversation Mitzvah and I had on skype a while ago about what it might be like if Joker really did have some supernatural powers that Scott Snyder teases in his Batman run. More specifically, what if he was a witch? How would that play out, and work within the plot of the comics? The brainstorming stayed with me and the resulting fic is a weird mix of headcanons and AU stuff, with some body horror in "The Masks" - it IS set in the DOTF arc - and really is more a collection of loosely-connected drabbles than any one coherent narrative. Still, it was interesting to write and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> (Oh, and Dick is a witch too. Because why not.)

They stare at him as he struggles through the warehouse to the stairs. None of them dare speak. He can feel their confusion, astonishment, _fear_ , lurid bright threads saturating the air. 

Good. Good. Fear is — good.

“Boss,” one of them asks, bravely — Johnny, Joker thinks, his name is Johnny, he’s woven that name into his web of protection charms just last month, he rather likes the boy, not bad as shadow puppets go and didn’t even require a lot of allure to pledge his loyalty — “Boss, you need help. Let me —”

Joker draws a gun and aims it at Johnny’s head without turning. 

“No,” he says, even as his blood goes drip, drip _splat_ onto the floor, staining the puddles of sewer water a murky red. “None of you — touch me. I’m fine.”

“Boss, you’ve got —”

“I’m perfectly aware, Jonathan, thank you.” Joker giggles, fingering the bullet hole in his side. His body cries blood, his suit cries sewage. The stairs get closer. Step by shaky step, the world ripples, the metal of the gun cold and heavy in his hand. “I’ll deal with this, hah, flesh wound on my own. You boys go and make sure we’ve got no bats in our belfry.”

Of course, Joker knows they don’t. But he needs to get them busy. He needs to let their tender, painfully breakable minds latch onto something other than the fact that they saw him get shot and plummet from a burning helicopter, bleeding like a stuck pig, into Gotham Bay not hours ago, and here he is, very much alive even if not quite kicking. Their fear — it grows, chills the air, gives it that metallic note you get when it starts to smell of winter. They wonder if he’s human. They wonder if he’s cursed, and if so, what if they are, too?

Joker laughs, pulling his battered body up the stairs step by agonizing step, leaving bloodied marks on the banister. He’s going to have to cast the allure over their eyes again when he’s better, probably, or they’ll flee. It isn’t easy, finding volunteers when you’re the Joker. People might start to suspect… 

Oh, children, he thinks, fondly. Sweet, naive children. Their minds are too young. Too raw. They haven’t learned yet, haven’t quite seen — quite understood. 

But they will, soon enough.

Soon enough.

He drags himself to the couch. He collapses onto the worn, moth-eaten cushions. He looks up, to the skylight, to the night slowly draining away above. 

He’s not too late. There’s still enough of it to draw on, and he breathes in relief, and closes his eyes.

_Where is he. How is he. Is he all right. Does he need me._

He imagines the Bat, sketches his portrait in the space between his eyes and the skylight just as his fingers sketch it in blood on his own white body. The Bat, and his inky black wings. His blazing eyes. His talons and fangs, and the mouth ever pursed in pain, his strong, bruised heart, beating, beating, beating… 

Blood drips onto the floor. Gets in-between the cracks. Gotham accepts, and listens.

And gives him the pulse of the Bat in return.

Only then does Joker breathe out, and lets his hands collapse, just for a moment. Lets himself rest. 

He’d know if the Bat came to any real harm, he’d feel it immediately, but still, it’s good to… make sure…

He lies there, under the skylight, just breathing. Just bleeding. Just — listening, and Gotham coos to him in reassurance, _It’s fine, you’re both fine, the dance may continue_. Whispers kisses over his face. Touches gently through his hair. 

_You’ve done well. Time to rest, now. There’ll be other nights._

Joker still hesitates, still plays for time. The pain is exquisite and he’d like to keep it in a little longer. But he has lost more blood than usual, and he knows that if he doesn’t move soon, he might not be strong enough to finish the process. So eventually he forces himself to concentrate again, on himself this time. He whispers the words, runs his fingers over the wound. He breaks the seal he’d hastily knitted together in the water. He coaxes out the bullet, the sewer germs, the seeds of infection. He lets the blood flow and feed into the cracks between the floorboards, an offering of gratitude for another beautiful night, as he begins to thread the words of power into his body, letting it regrow, re-close, re-attach. 

He goes slow. He doesn’t like healing himself this way, would much rather let his body work on its own terms as he lets his mind dissolve in the pain and coast on the currents of what pleasure his lover would give him, but the thing is, there are times when if he doesn’t, he might die. And if the Bat carries on, then so must the Joker. That’s the rules. That’s just how it is. That’s what the city wants of them both, and Joker knows his place.

Besides, the bullet isn't a gift from the Bat. It's just a stray from one of the shadow puppets, Gotham's finest being a little overzealous, and so, it's no great loss.

He hums under his breath as his body stitches itself back together and lets the steady rhythm of the Bat’s heartbeat lull him to rest.


	2. The Domain

One of the funniest things about the puppet shadows inhabiting Gotham is that they think that when they put Joker in Arkham, they’re _punishing_ him.

And oh, is it difficult to play along. _Impossible_ , not to laugh in their faces when they shove him into the cell and lock the door on him with a smugness that’s probably meant to humble him. They really don’t get it, the poor things, they can never get it, that when they put him in here, what they really do is deliver him home.

The Bat — might understand. He suspects, at least. He can feel the spirit of Arkham reaching out to him, and maybe can even recognize it as Joker’s own. It scares him, of course it does, it will always scare him as long as he chooses to shut himself away to the truth about Gotham and himself, about his part to play, about Joker’s. But he suspects, and that alone is important, that alone helps Joker weather the long, long nights without him when the doubt and the hurt inevitably worm their way in. The Bat suspects there’s something wrong, and that there’s a connection between Joker and himself, and this place, because he, unlike the others, is not blind. He can see, even if he chooses not to understand. He could if he only allowed himself to. And they _both_ know it.

And the truth about Arkham, the truth Joker knows the Bat suspects, is that it’s not just Joker’s home — it’s Gotham’s heart. 

And it speaks to Joker. It whispers, it coos, it greets him like a favorite child, _Welcome back, welcome back_. It sings him to sleep and then keeps singing through his dreams, streaking them a vivid red, red and black, red and black and white, blood on cape and skin alike. It tells him stories through the walls and, when he touches them, soothes him with its pulse. It leaks memories to dance and twirl for Joker, and he dances and twirls in return like the good court jester he is, and Arkham laughs with him, and loves him, and promises that the Bat will too.

It’s home, it’s his port of call, it’s his mother’s tender arms when he’s too tired and beaten and bruised to keep going. The puppets can’t take that away from him, though they try, oh, do they try, bless their little cloud-puff hearts. Joker supposes it’s only fair. They’re little more than sentient smoke, anyway, and deep down they probably suspect as much, and it’s only natural that they would hate _him_.

So it’s probably for the best that they can’t see the words of love and magic Joker has written into the walls of his cell over the years. If they knew just how truly inconsequential they are, and how truly real Joker is, they would most likely kill him, Bat or no Bat. Jealousy is such an ugly, ugly thing.

Joker would know.

But alas, not all of them are as blind as the others. And with how long the game has gone on, it’s only a matter of time before someone catches on.

Enter Birdboy. 

Resplendent in laughably adolescent glory, sparking from the follicles of his hair to the tip of his toes with juicy self-righteous anger. Cloaking himself in power, to make himself big. To make himself strong and scary. Making sure Joker can taste the scent of his talent before he even arrives, adorable posturing buzzing with the undercurrent of very real fear. It really is too cute. And admirable, that the kid would choose to face him alone in Joker’s own domain, and out of respect for that Joker doesn’t outright laugh in his face.

He knows the kid is doing this out of love for the Bat. That, alone, deserves his attention, if nothing else.

So he grins at the child and invites him cordially, “Hello there, kiddo, come on in! Why won’t you take a seat? The nurses have just been on their cleaning rounds, not in my little hahacienda mind you, none of them will come close, but I borrowed a feather duster last week and had a jolly good go at it so it shouldn’t be too buggy! Which is more than I can say for some of my fellow residents here. Mind the bloodstains, though, your good old Uncle J got a little carried away at dinner.” He laughs, and Birdboy winces, his intimidation act cracking a little at the seams.

“The protection spells on Batman,” he says, summoning power back to his fingertips. “ _Your_ protection spells.”

Joker sits back on the cot, settling in, wiggling his toes at the kid as he makes himself comfortable in the straitjacket they wrestled him into after his little relaxation this afternoon. He gives the kid one of his most amiable grins. He’s rather enjoying this. He’s known for some time now that the kid had the gift, and of a kind very different to his own. Light, for a start, and Eastern-European, from his Romani parents most likely, strong but untrained and a little out of place in this living, breathing urban arena, which is how Joker could pick up on its notes so quickly. Now that the kid has realized Joker also has his… talents, the game should get a little more interesting. 

“So, you finally figured that out, eh?” he engages, somewhat giddy at the prospect.

“Why the hell would you do this?” Birdboy demands. “What is your game?”

“You know, I wondered: does papa Bat know about your talent? Or are you keeping it a secret from him to spare his delicate sensibilities? He really doesn’t like it when people can do things he can’t, does he?”

“I’m not here to talk about me, clown,” Birdboy snaps. “The spells. Why?”

“Took you long enough to realize what they were,” Joker sings. “Still in training? It’s okay. I’ve been at it for much longer than you, lil’ bird, don’t feel bad.”

“ _Why_?!”

Joker cocks his head at him and giggles. “And why do _you_ put protection spells on him? Why would anyone? You’re the fledgling detective, lil’ bird, you tell me!”

“You’re trying to keep him alive for something,” Birdboy seethes, “something big. What is it, clown? What the hell are you planning?”

“Oh, only a little ‘till death do us part,” Joker confesses, narrowing his eyes. “What can I say, I really am an old romantic and your papa Bat leads a dangerous lifestyle. I can’t let anyone else swoop him away from me before it’s time, now, can I?”

“Stop lying.”

“ _Am_ I lying, though?” Joker jumps off the cot and crouches by the glass doors to the cell, looking up at Birdboy. “Am I, lil’ bird? You know how blood magic works, I take it? They’ve taught you that much in your circus? Well then, if you took such a good look at my handiwork, you’ll know that I’ve used blood magic on your father. And you know that this only holds under certain… conditions.”

Birdboy studies him. He’s still trying to maintain the aura of power over himself, but it’s not so much to intimidate Joker now as it is to hold off the curious, eager fingers of Arkham. He’s beginning to realize he’s come to threaten and challenge Joker on his own turf, in his own _home_ , and the implications of that are beginning to truly frighten him. He stands his ground anyway and tries to maintain the illusion that everything is okay, that he is the free man here and Joker is the prisoner, but he’s beginning to crack, and Joker delights in every single second. 

This is Joker’s domain. This is where he is strongest. No one can challenge him here, not in these friendly walls, and Birdboy is finally letting that sink in.

Still he stands there, and still he glares into Joker’s eyes. 

Still, he whispers, “You really are insane.”

Joker laughs. He uncoils, springs to his feet. He presses his face to the glass.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he croons as Arkham spins and crackles and rises in a surge of power around him, in him, in his blood, in his mouth, and Birdboy recoils, finally letting his own magic sizzle out in surrender. “I sometimes think I might be.”


	3. The Price

There’s always a price to pay. That’s one of the first things you learn when you realize you have the gift and start to use it.

There’s always a price, whether you can see it or not, and in Joker’s case, it’s his sanity.

He doesn’t mind, most of the time. He enjoys the freedom madness brings. He enjoys the clarity it lends him, the insight, the ability to see past the shadows and through to the other side. Glimpses of the future, glimpses of the past. The knowledge of just when and how he should die. The certainty of his role in this world, who he should serve, and how, and how long. The fierceness of true love, and the opportunity to experience it fully without all those restraints that bind everyone else, to throw himself into its whirlpool and let the waters carry him and never look back. 

Except sometimes, especially when he’s in Arkham, he does look back. Except sometimes the city allows him morsels of memories of the time before he knew who he was supposed to be, and it’s not much, but what there is is _terrifying_. Mostly he remembers fear. Of everything. Weak, pathetic fear that seizes him up in dreams sometimes and stops his heart. Fear of what he might be, fear of what he doesn’t understand, fear of missing something vital to him and of never being able to find it. _Stop_ , he begs then, _stop, I don’t want to remember, take it back, just take it back and I’ll do what you want._ He doesn’t want visions of a life without purpose, of existing as a blank slate to be written on. He doesn’t want a life without the Bat in it. 

Those are the times when he embraces his madness like mother and father in one, and pays the price gladly, and is grateful.

But the thing about madness is, you can’t control it.

And sometimes, when you’re not careful, it will leak through. And it will control you.

The price for no restraints is _no restraints._

Which is how Joker finds himself standing over a little bird — powerless, this one, powerless and bloodless and so much like Joker himself sometimes that he cannot stand looking at him — and there’s a bloodied crowbar in his hand, and a bomb about to go off, and the rush of power still roaring in his ears. 

He knew there was a purpose to it, he thinks as he runs across the desert. A sacrifice, an offering, maybe. A necessary one to propel himself and the Bat on their journey. He understood that as it was happening, he’s sure. He usually does, one way or another. But all at once he feels the gap between himself and his love growing, widening, just as he does with every murder, necessary or the result of frenzy, and his heart grieves quietly, and he wishes he could change things. He wishes he could stop himself, and rebel, and go against the current for once, to see if maybe — maybe — the Bat could allow himself to acknowledge what they have.

He wonders if there is a reality somewhere, anywhere, just one, where the two of them could be happy.

But the city demands, and has demanded ever since Joker’s eyes opened for the first time and his power surged through, free of the fear, stirred to life by chemicals and fate and love. It demanded that he reshape himself in an image the city needed from him. It demanded that he become the faithful jester to Gotham’s only king. 

And it’s not the jester’s place to question what the price will be. His place is to serve, as best he can, and most of the time he is happy to. He can’t change anything, and won’t try.

And if his heart bleeds sometimes, and if sometimes he cannot control what he does for the city and for the king, well… 

That’s just how it has to be.


	4. The Mask

In the end, he isn’t sure if it’s the madness or the purpose that pulls off the skin of his face. Maybe it’s both. He feels like it’s both, when the pain gets too white-flash-hot to bear, when even the whisper of air against naked bleeding muscle tissue is too much, and as he finally collapses to his knees in the woods where the shadow puppets won’t find him, it feels like completion. Like an orgasm, one that will last for months, and the promise of more. 

He whispers spells, hums a network of threads to keep the tissue clean. Soothes away at least some of the pain, enough to not pass out, enough to be able to breathe and think past the burn of hurt, of pleasure. His hands shake. They can’t quite stay on point as he tries to sketch the Bat in the dirt, and he laughs, laughs so much it burns even more, and the world ripples and swims in color and he feels — yes. This is it. This is how it’s supposed to be. This is both madness and magic, communing inside him, and he was right to let them. 

More spells help keep his eyes clear, steady his hands, lift some of the haze from his mind. He manages to draw the Bat in the dirt, and lets the blood from his own ruined face drip into the drawing. He sketches protective symbols next to it and sprinkles those with his blood as well. Then, he says the words, and bends down to kiss the soil. 

His love, his heart, his life. His self. He gives it all up, and feels pure, and complete, and naked all at once.

His king, his dark knight, will need the added protection for what is to come. For what the city needs of them both. 

Then, Joker staggers up and to his feet, and begins the slow trek away from Gotham, away, away, he must away, it doesn’t matter where, just — away, so the Bat won’t find him before it’s time. Before Joker can set a new stage and lift the curtain again. 

He’ll be back when he’s ready. And he’ll wear the skin of his own face over naked muscle like the Bat wears his mask, to show him, to show everyone, what is illusion and what is real, what is mask and what is flesh. To gently mock, and expose, and nudge his love back onto the right course. The Bat has lost his way, but that’s all right. That’s fine. He’ll show his king just how naked they both are, and how ready he is to give up everything for him, for them, and the Bat will understand, and all will be right. 

He’s a good court jester, and he’s going to serve his king, whether the king wants him to or not.


	5. The End

“Julia. Take it up,” the Bat whispers, and Joker can feel his breath, so frail, so close. His blood, warm, sticky, wet against Joker’s face. His blood, their blood. Swirling together. Together. 

“I’m just going to rest here a little while with my friend.”

Joker takes a breath. His body is on fire, it’s — on fire, his organs crushed, life oozing out of him, out of both of them. He’s lying in Batsy’s blood, and Batsy is lying in his. He’s looking at Joker. Through the ruin of his mouth, he tries to smile as the city collapses the cave over them, trapping them, claiming them. 

“Together,” Batsy whispers. He doesn’t move, he lies there watching Joker, and Joker can’t even sob, but he manages to somehow push himself to his side even though his mind goes black from the pain. 

His fingers move. His lips move. He starts to weave the spell over Bats, over himself, over both of them together, in the puddle of their blood.

“Joker,” Bats tries. “What… what are you…”

Joker concentrates, and summons what’s left of the dionesium. It’s all he has left, power sizzling out of his fingertips as it oozes out of him along with the blood, but — but he knows he will — that they can’t — it may be what he saw, it may be what he was promised, but good as it is, it’s not the end. He won’t let this be the end. His heart is broken, and he wants more, and this one time, he will rebel. He will haggle, if he must, for another chance. 

The city took so much, of him, of Bats, of both of them. They fed it everything they had. 

It’s time it gave something back.

It's trying to stop him, even now. Sensing his disobedience, his betrayal, it's trying to crush him in its outrage. _How dare you_ , it hisses, _you're nothing, you're just a pawn, a servant, you have no right to demand anything._

 _And yet, I do_ , Joker parries, and laughs at his own insolence.

The city has its plans, yes. 

But so does he.

“Not the end,” Joker insists, weakly, as what they call dionesium begins to flow up, to mix with their blood amids the crash and rumble of collapsing cave. "Death... for life. Life for death, and death for life. That's... the bargain. And I will pay the price."

The Bat is staring at him in silence. He doesn't understand. And that's all right. Joker doesn't need him to. 

_Death for life_ , he insists as the city roars in frustrated fury, _that is my deal. Death for life... rebirth. For both of us._

Not the end.

He whispers the words over and over as long as he can, as long as he has breath. As long as he has strength. He touches his bloodied fingers to Batsy’s eyes, to his mouth. There will be a price, as always, and it will be terrible. Death for life, life for death. It's okay. He'll pay what he must, as long as...

Not the end, he promises, before he surrenders to black.


	6. The Rebirth

The park is where he first hears it again, for the first time, _again for the very first time_ — the voice of the city.

The park, at night, where a beautiful, rugged-looking man, his beard thick, his eyes a sad, forget-me-not blue, passes him without a second glance and steals his breath away.

And there’s — a pull. And a stutter of the heart. And at first he thinks it’s just the appreciation, the beauty of the man, but suddenly he is not alone in his head anymore — he never was, he knows, but the echoes were never voices, and now, they are. And his blood tingles. And his mind electrocutes. And his skin crawls with needles, all at once, like he’d been sitting on a limb for too long only the limb is his entire body, and the fog he never knew was there lifts, and he sees —

Bat. The Bat. His Bat, his Bats, his Batsy, walking away from him, completely unaware of the pull of the blood magic between them, old, old, old magic, the spells woven into his skin, the words, _his_ words, embedded deeply in his blood, their blood, mingled, together —

And he has a name again. He knows who he is. Who he was. And, once again, he is in love, only this time?

This time it is no longer liberating. Because this time, he remembers, oh no no no he _remembers_ , and this time, he is _terrified_.

He runs away that first night, against the city that tries to push him the other way. Against the urgent whispers that demand of him what he isn’t ready to give. He runs, and locks himself away in his hole of an apartment, and prays, and prays, and prays, _please no not again I can’t_ against the magic stirring and crawling lethargically in his veins, waking anew. He cries. He begs. In the lights of the city worming their way inside he can almost see his skin turning white, threading inside out, and he shivers, and pleads, and bargains. 

Just a few days more. A few weeks. He remembers the pain, and the heartbreak, and the sadness, more than he does the freedom and thrill, and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t. 

_But what about him_ , the city tempts, _he needs you, he can’t be himself without you._

 _Maybe he doesn’t want to be himself_ , the Joker — Jack — still just Jack — argues, _and maybe I don’t either. Maybe we can start again. Maybe we can build something else. A new myth. You have enough of those already, you don’t need us anymore, you don’t —_

_I will always need you. Both of you._

_No_ , Jack pleads, _no._

He has a choice, in the end. He thinks. Life, or peace. Peace or life. He’s going to have to give up one or the other, but maybe he has a choice as to which. 

Which is why he returns to the park. Night after night. Which is why he goes to the bench, and he waits. Maybe he can stop this. Whatever track they’re on, maybe he can — maybe he can weave a spell, close Batsy’s eyes to the truth forever, blur his mind clean of the demon in his heart, and then the city really will have to make do without them. Maybe there’s a chance. If he can only — if he can talk to Bats, make him see — 

But Bats has already made up his mind. Things can’t stay as they are, he says, he can’t keep them that way, and he can’t stay at peace. And Jack. And Joker. 

He can’t bring himself to say the words, _or_ to pull the trigger.

He can’t make Bats forget him forever, can’t bring himself to do it, the love in his heart — fierce, burning, selfish love — makes it impossible. In the end, the city, as always, makes the decision for him: your peace, that’s what I’m taking.

And Jack — Joker, he doesn’t know anymore — he cries again, that night, even as the city builds itself new myths and claims its most beloved one anew. 

Bats has remembered. He is back. And that means — 

_He hasn’t recognized me yet_ , Joker pleads, _and so I don’t have to come back. Not tonight. Not yet._

The city doesn’t have an answer to that, and Jack thinks, he still has time. 

So he comes back to the bench. He breathes in and tastes the leftover magic still lingering in the lake. He remembers them dying together, over and over and over, their blood mingling, _my friend_. 

That’s where the Bat — Bruce — finds him again.

And again. 

And again.

He asks him out for coffee, one of those nights, and Jack — he is Jack in that moment, he resolves to be — says yes. 

Maybe it’s a bad idea. Maybe he should stay away, and make it all the more difficult for the Bat to remember, to recognize him and recall him to his world. But he is selfish, and greedy, and stupid with hope, and they end up walking along the bank of the river all night, drinking their coffee on the bridge, with wind in their hair, glint in their eyes. 

They never arrange to meet again, and yet, they do, and it’s like a test they pass over and over which inevitably pushes them closer and closer to the final exam. Will we meet again. Will we find each other in this city of thousands. Will the thing that pulls us together keep urging, urging, until we can no longer deny — 

It does, and they do, and eventually, there is no disguising the dance anymore.

Jack asks if Bruce wants to come up.

And Bruce touches his face.

And Bruce says yes.

Jack can taste the city in his kisses. The Bat, on his tongue, on his mouth, on his skin. He doesn’t know quite which one he’s worshiping, the Bat or Bruce, but he loves them both with all his heart, and so maybe it doesn’t matter because he sees them both when he lays the man down on his rickety old bed and takes him in, body and soul and heart. 

And he is touched back. And he is accepted. And Bruce pulls him down to kiss him, and holds his hips to give him more of himself, to drive himself deeper, and Jack takes him in more and more and more, so glad, so happy, so in love, and he thinks, _Thank you_. If this is the only night they’ll ever get, like this, before it all crashes down around them — _Thank you_.

But then Bruce, the Bat, he comes in his body, and it doesn’t matter that there’s a condom in the way, it doesn’t _matter_ , because they’re one in all the ways that count, and Jack is coming too, and the thing about blood magic is, one of the conditions for it to work is love. And with love — 

There can be no masks.

And so, in the communion of love, masks must fall away. And so they do. 

And the Bat is looking at him, still inside him, still sheathed deep, and he whispers, “… You.”

And he pushes Jack off. And he holds him down. And the world falls away, and the city hums in anticipation, because it knows what’s coming, it knows that the old myth will now be complete, because Jack’s skin is threading inside out again and he can feel the myth taking root deep inside him, and his heart coats with magic, and the madness, the madness — 

_Time to pay, child_ , it hums, murmurs, charging the air. _Death for life, as you wished, and this is the price. The life that could have been. I'm clamining it, as I've claimed you. Time to pay._

He knows it's true. It's time, and he knew the price would be terrible. He knows they can't win, neither of them. Still, he tries --

“Help,” he pleads, desperate, clawing at the Bat, casting blind, “help me, don’t let this happen again.”

“What,” and the Bat is scared now, watching his skin turning white, watching his hair turning green, watching as the magic claims its price, “what can I do, please tell me, what —”

But it’s too late. Too late. The Joker is laughing, and tears stream from his eyes, and he punches the Bat so hard there’s blood on his knuckles, and he licks it off, and with the first taste — it’s too late.

He jumps out the window, shimmies down the fire escape. He cloaks himself in shadow. The Bat tries to follow but loses him quickly enough, because the Joker knows this city even better than he does, and he knows where to disappear. 

He is back, and the night opens its eager arms for him, tender, loving, _Welcome back_ , and —

Too late, or maybe, not soon enough.


	7. The Myth

And so they dance, again. 

And so they hurt, again.

And so Joker knits spells into the body of the Bat again, protection, love, blood, as he makes friends with the new Arkham and works to make it his home just like the old one used to be. It’s only fitting, he thinks and laughs to himself, a new home for the new Joker. He feels lighter, like he’s shed many skins, and that’s true after all, isn’t it? That’s just what happened. He, the Bat, Arkham, even Gotham. A whole new lifespan, a whole new perspective, a whole new world of opportunity. The clock reset. The cycle restored. The stage, fresh, empty, waiting for him to direct a new act. 

He’ll make it beautiful as only he knows how. 

For both of them, and for the city, and for the myths it craves.

He whispers the words, and Arkham sings along, and he listens to the heartbeat of the Bat.


End file.
